1 4 1,000,000 (Suicide Blonde Edit) IN ASHLEY LEWIS'S BACKSTORY, MAY 23, 1995, WAS MORE THAN JUST A TURNING POINT, IT WAS A PERSONAL REVOLUTION, THE BEGINNING OF A SECOND LIFE THAT HAD VERY LITTLE RELATION TO THE FIRST. You might compare it to a tribal initiation. His metamorphosis, occurring in his freshman year at Sydney University, corresponded with a broader transformation sweeping the world, the Chloro environmental movement; on that particular day he had skipped lectures to listen to a speech by one of its gurus, Yalmundi, on the need for student militancy. Although Yalmundi was obviously an Aboriginal name, it was not clear whether he was indeed Aboriginal. He was a thin and rather intense man in his 30s, dressed in torn jeans and a vibrant poncho. In the cramped chatty aftermath of the talk, Ashley was pushed by the mob into the vicinity of a tall woman whose hair was incredibly white, somewhere beyond platinum blonde, with dazzling green eyes. Her nametag introduced her as Fern. He was immediately captivated. <<Wow, heavy>> he murmured, more as an aside to himself that anything else. <<That's an understatement>> she replied, misinterpreting his lust as an earnest political aspiration. <<The situation is dire, indeed. What are you going to do about it?>> <<Well, I already signed up to five different environmental groups>> Ashley boasted. <<That includes Greenpeace, Friends of the Earth, and the World Wildlife Fund.>> >>Revolutions are not won by signing petitions, not by donating to groups, nor by watching David Attenborough documentaries," she chided. >>We're well past the stage of advocacy here. There is only one place where real change happens, and that is on the streets.>> Suddenly Yalmundi himself emerged out of the crowd, and slipped his arm around Fern's waist. Ashley was initially disappointed, but then chuffed that the star of the show was in his midst. He delivered Ashley a somewhat condescending look, and said to Fern <<Do you want to bail?>> <<Yeah, sure.>> Then, becoming aware of Ashley's despondent appearance, she added <<This guy could do with a lift, though.>> Yalmundi winked at her surreptitiously and said <<Bunyarra!8>> SOME HALF HOUR LATER Ashley was sitting in Yal and Fern's vintage blue jeep, which was plastered in stickers celebrating noble causes dating all the way back to the Summer of Love, enjoying the Goan trance blaring through the rather tinny soundsystem. Curiously, they had made no effort to ask him his address, and he was in no hurry to tell them. They were rolling through the streets of Darlington, lined with genteel terrace houses. Entering Redfern, the aspect became rougher, more indigenous, and Yalmundi was happy to point out some of the historic attractions of the suburb, such as the infamous Block and the iconic "40,000 Years is a Long Time" mural opposite the railway station. The skyline of the city came into view, rising dramatically from an (post)industrial wasteland. A couple of blocks later, they stopped outside a nondescript warehouse, its brick walls covered in graffiti and flyers. <<Well, you needed a lift>> Yalmundi said, parking outside the warehouse. <<Here it is.>> The "Posse", as the collective called themselves, all lived together in an upper floor of the building. Their "Space" was heavy with a mélange of scents and spices including body odor, stale cigarettes, incense, and what smelt like bush buds9 being blazed somewhere inside the complex. As Ashley gained admission, he noticed that it was hive of activity, with an apparent cadre of hardcore tree-sitters and protestors, dreadlocked and unkempt, aided and abetted by an array of graffiti artists, activists and anarchists. Among them was Matt, a more conventional guy who claimed to be studying chemical engineering. He had set up some kind of apparatus in a corner of the loft, but Fern steered Ashley away from him, towards what seemed to the central alcove. There a photosynthetic girl with a shaved head and matching Minor Threat T-shirt was screenprinting on a solid wooden desk, producing dozens of psychedelic posters all bearing the slogan: "One for a Million". Yal and Fern disappeared for a while into what might have been their private alcove, leaving Ashley in a limbo. He was examining some portraits of native wildlife hanging on an interior wall when one of the chlorophiles handed him a loaded bong. He sniffed the cone reluctantly, repulsed by its herbal pungency. <<Get it into you, mate!>> the ecologist said and laughed. Ashley had smoked half a joint the previous year, but the cone presented to him was on another level entirely (he would later learn that it had been "enhanced"). He spent a full minute just coughing. What seemed like hours later, but might have been just a short interlude, he was deeply stoned and admiring one of the psychedelic posters. <<What does it mean: "one life for a million"?>> he wondered, speaking aloud. <<Let me show you>> Yalmundi said, materializing behind him. ASHLEY TOOK A JARRING CHOP. The blow dislodged a spider from the leaves above, and it parachuted on top of him. He flinched, trying to shoo it away. <<Chop it down!>> Yalmundi ordered, impatiently. They were gathered in a clearing in a national park on the edge of Sydney, and as Ash picked up the axe and readied for another swing, he was alarmed to watch the tree come to life: its trunk became a gnarled face, complete with barky lips and lichen eyebrows. Eyes and mouth rippled out in silent exclamation as he took another swing. No! Man! he thought this is one hell of a trip! <<I thought you guys were about saving trees, not cutting them down>> he managed, as Yal and Fern observed his work. <<It's one life for millions, that's what it is>> Yal replied, lighting a cigarette. <<In other words, it's sacrifice. A concept alien to the capitalist mind, but one we're trying to revive.>> Somewhere around midnight, they installed the trunk in the middle of Martin Place, a pedestrian mall and nexus of the city's banking precinct. As Fern reminded them, come December it was also decked out with a massive Christmas tree, a tribute to consumerism and the commodification of paganism. To Ash, the scene looked more than a little cheap and tawdry. But Yal intoned, as if delivering last rites: <<Heed the call, the earth's lamenting cry For careless hands have scarred the azure sky With greed and folly, we've plundered and defiled The sanctity of nature, once so wild...>> On the ride home to the Space Yalmundi elaborated further: <<It was felled for the sake of the forest, those millions of other trees under threat all over the world. It is an exchange. It is also a reminder to the corporate clones of Mammon of the pristine beauty of the natural world. As a result of it planting here, slaves will be awakened from their slumber, and will rally to fight for the remnants of the bush that still survive.>> ASHLEY AWOKE THE FOLLOWING morning lying on a threadbare couch. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was. Then, in garish detail, the memories returned: the sermon at Sydney Uni, his introduction to the Posse, and then the trippy episode with the bush buds and the talking tree which he heroically cut down. The experiences were so outlandish and bewildering, so surreal that he wondered if they were just hallucinations caused by excessive THC. Then he perused his hands and perceived that they were scratched and soiled. In fact, there was a splinter in his thumb and it was starting to throb. A cold terror seized him. He bounded out of the couch, quickly gathered his possessions, and fled the warehouse. For what remained of the week, he kept a low profile, convinced that the cops were about to raid his dorm. Slowly - ever so slowly - his paranoia subsided. He eventually ventured out to Chinatown for some chicken laksa whereupon he passed a "One for a Million" poster wrapped around a pole. A wave of nostalgia ensued, and he remembered almost fondly the astonishment he felt upon visiting the Space, the sense of camaraderie and solidarity. Later that day, news broke of an ecological catastrophe in Myanmar. Anger stirred within him, and he recalled Fern's words during the Martin Place mission: <<This is a real war now, and in a war it is up to the willing and the brave to volunteer for combat.>> It was hard yakka10 relocating the warehouse. There were a lot of warehouses in Redfern, and many of them looked the same. Peeking in through the dusty windows of one complex, he recognized a peculiar freight elevator, more like a raft than a small box, used for hoisting large objects such as pallets to higher floors. He recalled Fern's joke about "needing a lift", and smiled. Bunyarra! Up at the loft, Matt was hunkered down at his desk, carefully strapping a stack of silver cylinders together using plyers and steel twine. It must have been a delicate operation, as his brow was furrowed, his breath labored. Eventually he lowered the contraption to the table and sighed. He then noticed Ashley standing in the escalator. <<Hey, dude>> he mouthed. <<I'm glad you could make it back>> <<Me too>> Fern agreed, stepping out of the shadows, her eyes glittering. <<It takes perseverance to get this far. You've made it to the inner sanctum at last.>> <<EVERY MOVEMENT HAS its sharp edge, it's militant arm>> Yalmundi was lecturing. <<Sinn Féin has the IRA11, the African National Congress had its spear, the Umkhonto we Sizwe, before they liberated themselves from apartheid. Chloro has the Chloro Revolutionary Posse, otherwise known as the CRP. We are the vanguards of the revolution. Maoist, not Leninist, but that is a whole 'nother shitfight.>> Ginkumo Chemical's manufacturing facility at Parramatta was a sprawling series of reactors and chimneys, scrubbers and compressors, all connected by gleaming pipes and ringed with razor-sharp wire. The Posse's trademark jeep loitered a few streets back, windows blacked out, Yalmundi sitting in the driver's seat wearing an earpiece just like in a movie, and smoking nervously. <<I want to do something constructive>> Ashley said, sitting in his usual position in the back. Yalmundi swiveled around and probed sardonically: <<You keep using that word: "I". Why do you think you're so special? Individualism is what has led us to this precipice. The collective is our only salvation.>> Fast forward a few nail-biting hours, and the entire Posse were congregated around their communal television set in the Space for the evening news. The program opened with dramatic music and the sensational strapline: "Terror Down Under". As the screen flashed grotesque scenes of twisted metal, flaming vats and masked yellow firefighters trying to control a hellish blaze, Ashley's stomach clenched. The plant appeared very different now. <<A radical environmental group has claimed responsibility for the bombing of a chemical plant in Parramatta which has injured a worker and caused nearly $5 million dollars in damage," the newsreader began breathlessly. <<According to witnesses, at about 3pm a powerful explosion tore through the wall of the control center of the facility, injuring a 43 year-old process engineer, David O'Connor. Rushed to Westmead Hospital suffering second-degree burns, he is now reported to be in a stable condition. <<Shortly after the blast, an anonymous spokeswoman for the Chloro Revolutionary Posse phoned a Sydney radio network claiming responsibility for the attack. The spokeswoman stated that the raid was conducted in retaliation for the deaths of more than 300 people in the recent Ginkumo chemical leak in Mandalay. The CRP, which is also suspected of involvement in the attempted bombing of the headquarters of a petroleum company in Sydney last year, has promised further strikes against companies which flaunt their environmental responsibilities. "The Australian people," the spokeswoman said, "have declared war on multinational corporations who prioritize shareholder gain over the wellbeing of the planet." <<Ginkumo's Australian manager Chas Stigwood has defended his company's industrial record and said it had been cleared of blame for the Mandalay disaster. <<It's ironic that the CRP, while claiming to fight pollution, caused a massive fire which shrouded nearby suburbs in toxic smoke. This vicious and senseless action will set back the green cause by generations...">> <<Fuck you!>> Yalmundi snarled, turning away from the TV in disgust. Fern, more exuberant, stood up and proclaimed: <<Comrades, chlorophiles all, gather round! It's time for a celebration!>> A bottle of champagne popped, blasting a cork which ricocheted off the rafters. Matt was allowed first swig. <<Speaking of changing the world>> Fern continued as the collective waited their turn <<I've drawn up a list of other potential targets. Demolish statues of Captain Cook. Infiltrate RSL12 clubs around the nation, and fly the black flag of anarchy or pirate flags from their flagpoles. Slash tires of expensive cars. Hijack a commercial radio station and force them to play chloro all night long. Go naked as a sign...>> <<No... fuck slashing tires, we got bigger fish to fry>> Yalmundi objected. <<Coal is public enemy number one. Our next job's got to be a power station.>> LIKE ALL POWER STATIONS in New South Wales, Nurrawandi was protected by several rings of 358 mesh perimeter fencing topped with rolls of razor wire. The holes in the fence were too small to allow your feet purchase and the razor wire too nasty to contemplate but Fern had figured out the easiest across was to use an oldschool wooden ladder. That was, however, slow and cumbersome but Fern had noted the security was rather lax. At least, that's what she told Ashley! The twin smokestacks rose ominously over the greygreen scrub. It was early spring, and the high-vis gear and hard hat that he had been given to "blend in" was suffocating him. He deposited the briefcase concealing Matt's latest creation pressed against the wall of the turbine hall. An hour later, according to plan, it would rip through the tin exterior like a fiery wind, blasting down everything in its path. He started the timer wondering what Yalmundi would see when he watched the 6pm news, praying that it would not be stretchers and relatives of the dead or injured huddled in grief. He bounded an internal enclosure beneath a canopy of transmission lines, and still carrying his stepladder, began jogging across the stunted scrubland towards the jeep. He reached the perimeter fence, then sighed in relief. Bunyarra! he thought. He'd be on the highway by the time the bomb exploded, 50 kilometers away by the time the police had worked out what happened. Hundreds of kilometers by the time that they started searching for him. Taking refuge in the Posse's hideaway up the coast, as the corporate state reeled in shock and revulsion. He heard a sickening squelch of wet tires turning on bitumen and rotated rapidly to behold, a few hundred meters distant, two sedans driving down a side access road to the power station. He felt like he was going to shit himself. Fern had spent a month scoping this place and nothing like this had happened before. This was always the quietest part of their schedule. Their cars were making for the northern carpark, right where Ashley had planted his explosive device. Two men in each vehicle. Four ordinary workers. <<No!>> Ashley screamed, scrambling back over the fence, and sprinting madly towards Nurrawandi. <<Me too>>There's a bomb!>> He could hear Yalmnundi's stern reprimand in his head: Don't do it, you're as weak as shit! but in the panic of the moment, in the blazing sun, he didn't care. The cars disappeared behind the station. He reached the inner fence, some 50 meters from the briefcase, and orbited the turbine hall. The cars were pulling into the rear parking lot just as he arrived. Suddenly it was like watching everything in slow-mo. A sandy-haired man first out of the car, joking about their weekly session at the pub. A second, a dead spit of his uncle. <<You can buy first round>> he was saying. The briefcase, so far away. Two more workers sliding out of the other vehicle, catching glimpse of Ashley acting all deranged behind the mesh. The briefcase. A terrifying realization visible in their faces. The briefcase. A blinding flash, and then a pressure wave which knocked all of them off their feet. The cars burning husks, blown on to their roofs. A hole in the power station. And as a Klaxon wailed Ashley lay on the grass and thought: It was a sacrifice, and an exchange that the capitalists will never understand. It was one life for millions, that's what it was. My life, in exchange for the victims of climate change. I - no sorry, we - were the martyrs, the sacrificial lambs. "Heed the call, the earth's lamenting cry / For careless hands have scarred the azure sky." Archives april 15 2024 FIRST CONTACT (c)opyright Rob Sullivan 1988-2024. Contact the author for all your criticisms and feedbacks.